


Pens & Swords

by VillaKulla



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Just two people ridiculously in love, M/M, Wordplay as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillaKulla/pseuds/VillaKulla
Summary: “Alright, who’s getting your words this time?”Letter writing and knife sharpening, and sometimes it doesn't matter if the pen is mightier than the sword or not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff as promised, and happy holidays!

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you writing a book over there or what?”

 

Goodnight Robicheaux smiled but didn’t look up from the large oaken desk, its oil lamp casting him in a soft glow.

 

“Still letters, mon cher.”

 

Billy sighed and flopped back against the mattress. He stretched his arms over his head and arched his back to get a proper stretch, lifting his hips off the bed.

 

“If you’re trying to distract me,” Goody said mildly as he dipped his pen into the ink. He glanced up to look at Billy, the crinkles beside his eyes deepening. “It’s _almost_ working.”

 

Billy’s lip twitched.

 

“Worth a shot.”

 

“Worth a whole lot more than that,” Goodnight said, smiling as he turned back to the creamy pages of paper spread out over the desk, some completed, their ink drying. “But I want to finish these in time to put them on the mail train tomorrow morning.”

 

“I know,” Billy said, sitting back up and leaning against the pillows of the large bed. It was a nice hotel in a nice town and he looked comfortably around the large room with its rich deep carpet and velvet drapes, its sturdy shining furniture, and its fire that blazed merrily in the grate. It was the hotel’s ‘Presidential Suite’ and Billy wondered if a president had ever actually stayed here. Either way, whoever was in this room certainly wouldn’t be starved for comfort.

 

Goodnight had spiffy tastes and if they ever found themselves in a nicer town, Goodnight occasionally liked to stay in the fancier places just for a change of scenery. Billy sometimes found the amount of luxury in them outrageous. But not as outrageous as Goodnight’s excuses to get them both in.

 

“Hello my good man,” Goodnight would exclaim as he strode across elegant lobbies and up to their front desks, hoping to charm whoever was behind them. “Can you spare a couple rooms? I’m a sea captain and this is my first mate, only we lost our jobs when we realized we were in the middle of the desert.”

 

Or: “I’m a barber and this is my business partner. I wash the hair and he cuts it. Go figure.”

 

Or: “I’m opening up a bowling alley in town. This is my pin-setter.”

 

Or: “I’m the personal beheader for the Crown Prince of Joseon. This is the Crown Prince of Joseon. Please don’t look him in the eye.”

 

Or: “I’m a doctor and I study memory loss. I forget what he does.”

 

Or: “I’m a resurrectionist. I sell bodies to universities and this is my latest cadaver.” And then he would look back to Billy and gasp: “Great _Scott!_ It moves!”

 

Billy knew what Goodnight was doing: trying to make Billy laugh so that he could feel at ease in a situation that wasn’t always easy for him. Billy could usually remain impassive but one time he’d cracked (“I’m the introducer of Billy Rocks. This is Billy Rocks.”), and Goody had turned back delighted at the laugh he’d startled out of Billy going, “Really? _That’s_ what gets you?” Billy had just grabbed his elbow to haul him away from the bemused looking clerk and they’d scampered out of the hotel, laughing the entire time.

 

However, they hadn’t needed any excuse for this hotel, and there they were now in its biggest suite which contained a fireplace, and a four-poster bed whose wide mattress they’d already made energetic use of.

 

Now Billy was just lounging against the sheets enjoying the warmth of the room, enjoying the heavy sated feeling in his limbs, and enjoying watching Goody who was sitting at the room’s writing desk in an embroidered robe. Goodnight was taking advantage of the proper writing desk by getting some letters done, occasionally holding up a paper, brow furrowed as his sharp eyes scanned over his messages, hair mussed and glowing gold in the firelight. Billy watched him with a contented smile. He loved watching Goody when he was focused on something. Especially when that something was Billy himself.

 

Billy started humming, tapping his foot against one of the posts of the bed, keeping rhythm with himself.

 

“Yes dear?” Goodnight asked. He sounded amused.

 

Billy chuckled. “Come keep me company.”

 

“You come keep _me_ company. Don’t you have a knife you can sharpen or something?”

 

Billy sighed exaggeratedly but he was already swinging his legs down to the floor and pulling on a pair of flannel sleep pants. In all fairness to Goody he _had_ told Billy he wanted to finish these letters tonight. It had only been a couple hours but Billy could only lie around in bed for so long. For all of Goodnight’s excitability, Goody was a much better lounger than Billy.

 

Billy got up and walked over to the desk, his thighs feeling pleasantly sore from the way they’d been propped up on Goody’s shoulders earlier. He came up behind Goodnight’s chair and leaned down over him, doing it carefully so that he didn’t jostle Goody and make him blot the ink. Billy peered at the letters fanned out on the desk. He wasn’t reading their contents, just admiring Goody’s elegant script. The man handled a fountain pen as well as a rifle, and Billy knew which he preferred seeing in his hands.

 

“Alright, who’s getting your words this time?”

 

“That one is for my cousin,” Goodnight said, nodding to a finished letter in the corner of the desk. “The one drying is for my former commanding officer’s widow. This one is for Sam.”

 

“The famous Sam Chisolm,” Billy mused, leaning against of the back of Goodnight’s chair, unable to resist dipping his head and breathing in the scent of Goodnight’s hair. “How’s he doing?”

 

“I don’t know,” Goodnight said, dipping his pen into the ink. “You see that’s the purpose of writing a letter. One gets to find out these things.”

 

He glanced up with a teasing expression and Billy tried to give him a stern look. But Goodnight felt so warm from where he’d been writing by the fire, Goodnight’s lips were tugging up so pleasingly, his eyes were so full of good humour, and Billy felt a warm pull of affection.

 

“Kissing you now,” Billy murmured, and then he leaned down to press his lips to Goody’s warm dry ones, their noses bumping a little. Goody’s lips turned up against his as he tilted his head to give Billy a better angle. Billy continued to kiss him, savoring Goodnight’s hum of contentment as he parted his lips and kissed Billy back.

 

They pulled away, warmth still lingering in the space between them. Goodnight’s cheeks were flushed pleasantly and Billy brushed his thumb against where the man’s skin was stained pink.

 

And then Billy was pulling another chair up to the desk, getting one of his knives out as per Goody’s suggestion, and locating his sharpening rod. He placed his knife against it, pressing the knife down in a drag as he carefully but comfortably sharpened the edge. Soon the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the scrape of the knife, and the scritch of Goodnight’s pen as he continued to write.

 

Eventually Goodnight flexed his wrists and put his pen down.

 

“Done?” Billy asked, dragging his knife along the honing steel.

 

“Time to proofread,” Goodnight said with a grin, picking up a dry letter and his pen again.

 

Billy glared and pointedly scraped the knife towards Goodnight on his next stroke.

 

Goodnight just chuckled. “Think of it this way, cher: at least I can proofread and talk to you at the same time. Which I _know_ you’ve been hoping for.”

 

Billy raised an eyebrow at him and Goodnight shrugged, his lips twitching.

 

“Even though you’d rather fall on your own sword than admit you like the sound of my voice.”

 

“I do like the sound of your voice,” Billy said promptly just to be contrary, and also to show Goodnight that he didn’t know _everything_. He grinned at Goodnight’s flushed, pleased look. “And I don’t have a sword either.”

 

“Well you should get one,” Goodnight said, dipping his pen into the ink, and carefully filling in a word that had come out lightly.

 

“Because that wouldn’t draw attention at all,” Billy said snorting as he continued to sharpen his knife.

 

“Says the man with a belt made entirely of knives.”

 

“Says the man who gave it to me.”

 

“And mighty fine taste I have too,” Goodnight said grinning as he lifted a page of parchment, scanning it for mistakes. “Although I suppose a sword might be superfluous. You’re about one step away from turning into a porcupine before my very eyes.”

 

Billy laughed as he scraped his knife again.

 

“Although you with a sword,” Goodnight mused thoughtfully, chewing on the end of his fountain pen and looking at Billy. “That would be a sight to make the poets weep indeed.”

 

“Well you’re the only poet around here, so be careful you don’t weep on your letters,” Billy said, smiling slightly.

 

“Why Billy, would you rather I write poetry about you instead?” Goody asked with a twinkle in his eye.

 

“That’s not what I –”

 

“There once was an outlaw named Billy –”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“Hush Billy, you remember limericks don’t you?”

 

“Vividly.”

 

Goodnight grinned before continuing to spin one on the spot:

 

“There once was an outlaw named Billy. Stuck his pins in his foes willy-nilly. It so happened one fight, that he met his Goodnight. And the rest as you know was quite…”

 

Billy stared at him and Goodnight raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

 

“Was quite…”

 

“Silly,” Billy finished resignedly.

 

“Precisely,” Goodnight said laughing. “You know you’re getting very good at those.”

 

“That one wasn’t even hard.”

 

“I can make it harder.”

 

“You _really_ don’t have to –”

 

“Your postage stamp eyes are so smart,” Goodnight said dramatically. “And you mail your soul to my heart. And your envelope mouth, sends my gaze further south, and it all makes me feel –”

 

“Like a tart?”

 

Goodnight practically collapsed onto the still-drying papers on his desk, his shoulders shaking with laughter, and Billy couldn’t hold back his own grin.

 

“Billy,” Goodnight finally got out as he straightened up. “That was _excellent!”_

Billy just shrugged, a smile glimmering around his lips as he went back to his knife, shaking the hair out of his eyes.

 

Goodnight was still staring at him but with a softer expression, the firelight flickering around him, dappling his hair and skin with gold. He tapped the end of his pen against his lips.

 

“No pen could pull words from the reservoir of your eyes,” he said suddenly in a quieter voice than he’d been using before. “And no quill could match the plume of your lashes. And still your skin, parchment smooth, begs for the spill of ink over your shoulders as your hair falls to meet them in calligraphy tresses.”

 

Billy swallowed as the fire crackled.

 

“What does that even mean,” he mumbled.

 

Goodnight smiled.

 

“Means you’re beautiful, darling.”

 

Billy cleared his throat.

 

“Go read your words again,” he said gruffly, and Goodnight huffed out a laugh as he turned back to his letters. But their feet touched gently beneath the table.

 

Finally Goodnight placed the letter he was reading back on the table and stretched his arms over his head with a yawn.

 

“Finished?” Billy asked.

 

“One’s work may be finished some day, but one’s education, never,” Goodnight quoted.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Billy said dryly.

 

Goodnight chuckled and began folding up the dry letters and placing them into envelopes that had already been addressed. And then he leaned back in his chair and appraised Billy, all while sucking the end of his pen again. The sight might have set a low heat in Billy’s stomach, but was it his fault Billy was so conditioned to appreciate the sight of Goodnight with things in his mouth?

 

Well. Since Billy couldn’t stop lighting cigarettes for Goody just to see the man’s lips wrapped around the tip of where Billy’s own mouth had been…Billy supposed he should take some of the blame.

 

“Well, Mister Rocks?” Goodnight finally said with a smile, lifting an eyebrow. “Going to come over here and further my education?”

 

“Sorry, can’t.” Billy glanced up at him with a wicked grin. “My knife’s not finished.”

 

“Billy!” Goodnight exclaimed indignantly, and Billy just smirked and continued to sharpen his knife.

 

Goodnight heaved a dramatic sigh. “There is no person so severely punished as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse.”

 

“Whatever you say,” Billy said amused, but not with any real intention of drawing it out.

 

“Fine, I can be patient too,” Goodnight said, rubbing his feet amiably against Billy’s while he looked at Billy with mirth, pen back in his mouth. “You’re just lucky I find your stubbornness so attractive.”

 

Billy glanced up and had to stifle a laugh.

 

“Goody, you –”

 

Goodnight was absently sucking on the wrong end of his pen and he quickly drew it out. A spot of ink stained his bottom lip and it stretched with the curve of Goodnight’s lips as he laughed in realization, and Billy didn’t think it was even _possible_ to love someone this much.

 

Goodnight looked around for a handkerchief but Billy reached out, half-rising out of his own chair, and he stilled Goody’s arm. His robe was slippery smooth beneath Billy’s hand.

 

“Let me,” Billy murmured softly. He lifted his hand and tilted up Goodnight’s chin, smiling a little as he looked at the man’s smudged lips. And then he leaned in and kissed him lightly, Goodnight’s lips parting softly in surprise.

 

Billy drew back slowly and touched the pads of his fingers to his own lips. They came away black.

 

“I’ve got your words on me,” Billy said with a laugh as he rubbed the ink between his fingers.

 

Goodnight swallowed, a flash of feeling shooting across his eyes as he looked up at Billy.

 

“If only words could do you justice, cher,” he said quietly.

 

Billy’s smile faded as he looked back at Goodnight who was holding himself still, but with unrestrained emotion in every line of his face, firelight glowing around them both.

 

Billy swallowed and reached back to brush Goody’s face, leaving a small streak of ink over his cheekbone, never looking away from his eyes.

 

And then he slowly leaned in, Goodnight’s eyes fell closed, and Billy kissed him again, almost tasting the hitch in Goodnight’s breath. Billy trailed a hand down Goody’s arm, shoulder to wrist, reaching for the pen still between Goody’s fingers. And without taking his lips off of Goodnight’s for a second he gently untangled the pen and placed it behind him on the desk.

 

Billy climbed onto the chair, sliding into Goodnight’s lap and winding his arms around Goody’s neck, still kissing him. Goodnight’s arms went around his waist to pull him closer until it felt like they were practically melting into each other, like paper taking ink. And they continued to kiss in front of the fire, their lips sealed together, no more words needed at all.

 

 

 


End file.
